Heel
by L'auteure
Summary: Full summary inside!  "Brittany, through a series of events that only Brittany herself could get into, is turned into a dog by a Miss Cleo-type cat-hater." Brittana relationship, Faberry relationship, and Faberrittana friendship. Enjoy!
1. Thursday

**Disclaimer:** I quite literally own nothing. Especially not _Glee_. Unfortunately.

**Spoilers:** Let's say up through "Rumours", episode nineteen of season two.

**Summary:** Brittany, through a series of events that only Brittany of all people could get herself into, is turned into a dog by a Miss Cleo-type cat-hater. She's taken in by Quinn, who—much to Britt's surprise—has her own emotional adventure of sorts. And since Brittany can now be a help in her friends' lives while not being held fully accountable, she might as well make the most of it.

**Warnings: **So far, rated T or PG-13/R for strong language. May be changed in later chapters due to added content.

**Author's note (i):** The idea was born from an anonymous patron of the _Glee_ Fluff Meme on Livejournal, in which they suggested Brittany transforms into a dog and gets Faberry together while working out her own issues with Santana somehow. It's not usually what I like reading, but for some reason the idea just hit me and stuck and wouldn't leave. So, here's what happened.

**EDIT (24/8/11):** I'm reposting this chapter because I just recently got the best beta a gal could ask for, who lovingly revised this chapter recently. I hereby pledge my undying gratitude to Hannah (HMai here on FF). For real, I owe that woman my life.

/*/

Thursday

/*/

_Lock all the doors with outside-access and every window each night. Set the alarm before you go to bed. Money's in the bottom-right drawer of my desk; this is for food and emergencies only (no HSN, honey!). Phone numbers of the hotel and of the park are written down and with the money, should you not be able to reach Daddy or me on our cellphones. No boys. No girls (other than Santana if you get scared). No parties. No alcohol. No drugs. No fire. No helium—_

Brittany picks her head up from her mom's shoulder, over which she is reading "Britt's Home Alone Instructions" that is in the process of being painstakingly written right at this moment. "No helium?" She raises her eyebrow. "Really, Mom?"

"Your thirteenth birthday party, April of 2007," her mother states. "Case in point."

Brittany chuckles in remembrance. She unwraps her arms from around her mom's waist to cross them and takes a step back. "It wasn't that bad. You didn't end up taking me to the emergency room or anything."

The slightly shorter woman finishes the directions, ending with the flourish of a signature—_Love you, sweetie. Mom_—and hands them to her daughter. "You almost fainted and it took two hours for your voice to go back to normal. If it's on the list, it was bad."

She pats Brittany's cheek as she begins to stride past, calling out to her husband. "Warren, do you need help packing the car?"

Mr. Pierce emerges from the kitchen with the plane tickets and a travel cup full of coffee in one hand and Brittany's little sister's own palm in the other. "Nope, sweetums. I reckon I'm all finished."

Brittany pockets the instructions in the back of her shorts. She crouches and reaches her arms out to the seven-year-old across the foyer. "Ariel, are you gonna kiss me good bye, or what?" She barely has time to finish her sentence before the tiny girl hurls herself into her sister's arms, already crying.

"Whyyyyy c-can't you cooooome?" Ariel sobs, squeezing Brittany as hard as her skinny arms will let her.

"Oh, honey," Brittany coos, stroking down her sister's blonde curls. "My spring break ended Monday. I told you already that our schools are on different schedules. I need to stay here to keep up."

"But you didn't get to go to Disneyworld! Or even the beach or grandma's or anything!" Just thinking about the obvious injustice sends a new wave of tears through the girl. "It's not faaaaair!"

"Hey," Brittany pulls back to look Ariel in the eyes, "I had the best spring break ever rehearsing with my glee club. Don't feel bad, I loved every second. And you're going to love every second of Disneyworld. Now go find the cats and give each of them a hug good bye." Ariel nods and pulls away, trotting to the kitchen where Lord Tubbington is surely scouting for snacks. Brittany stands and hugs each of her parents.

"You're sure you'll be all right, button?" her father asks. "If not, just say the word and I'll stay behind to keep you company. You might get spooked or lonely, especially since you and Art—" A look from Brittany's mom silences him fairly quickly. He visibly considers his words before he restarts, "Well, what I mean to say is, Mom can handle Air-bear all on her own, I'm sure. I could stay here with you."

"No, Daddy, go to Florida. I'll be just fine, I promise." She smiles in a way that she hopes is reassuring. "I'm seventeen now! All grown up, practically. And San is just a call away if I need anyone."

"Thank goodness," Mrs. Pierce adds. "That girl's a godsend. Make sure you give her all my love whenever she comes over, okay?"

Brittany tries not to blush, but a grin creeps over her features regardless. "I will."

"Charity and Tubby want you to come with us," Ariel interrupts as she descends the staircase.

Brittany can only shake her head skeptically. "Of course they want me to go. They won't respect the house rules without me here." She reaches to Ariel for another hug, who gladly complies. "Now," she states in a business-like tone, "remember what I told you to tell Pluto when you meet him?"

Her little sister visibly racks her brain before saying, "'Don't let the mouse bring you down. If Goofy is a dog and he can stand and talk and vote, you can, too.'"

"Perfect. Now go."

There's a final flurry of "I love yous" and "take cares" and "have funs" before the three Pierces begin to exit. Right as the door is about to close, her mother turns back and says, "We'll be back Saturday. Our plane gets in around ten, so we should be home no later than eleven."

"Martha!" her father bellows from the family station wagon. "She'll be hunky dory! Let's go!"

Mrs. Pierce turns back to Brittany, blows a final kiss, and the door closes.

Brittany is completely alone.

So, being the teenager that she is, she squeals and dances around the front hall. Obviously.

When she finally gets ahold of herself, she pulls her phone from her shorts and examines the screen. It's four. That means Santana will be here in about an hour and a half. Meaning she's already late in getting ready.

Wait, she's late getting ready.

Crap!

She practically flies up the stairs in order to get to her room. Dropping her phone and the instructions on her bed on the way into the connected bathroom, Brittany scrambles to plug in her curling iron and pull out her make up bag from under the sink at the same time. Charity stares at her incredulously from the bathtub.

"Hey, don't judge," Brittany scolds as she brushes on extra foundation. She can't look oily in front of the entire web universe, after all. "You know you'd act the same way if Tubbs finally agreed to come out of the closet for you."

In response, the feline blinks her yellow eyes and looks away.

"Yeah, I thought so."

As Brittany is curling her hair, her mind begins to drift. Which is really not that uncommon, but it's not like she stares blankly ahead of her and thinks of nothing. Usually, she worries. About grades, about glee club and all the drama that comes with it, about her little sister. Mostly she worries about Santana. But she's not worrying now. Right now, all she can think of is yesterday during lunch, when Santana took her aside to the choir room and sang to her.

She muses that it's almost just too good to be true. Yeah, the week had started off awful. But she knows in all certainty that it's going to be for the best, her and Artie breaking up. She loves him, truly she does. But she's in love with Santana.

Her heart skips a beat at the silent admission. She's in love with Santana.

She's _in love_ with Santana, her best friend who is in love with her right back! She's never been surer of anything in her entire, long, whole, seventeen-year life. Brittany could just die on the spot, she's so happy thinking about it.

But she won't. Not yet. Because her hair looks perfect and her make-up looks perfect and Santana will be here any minute.

Thinking of that, Brittany decides this might just be the perfect time to change into her pretty underwear. For the—well, the "after party" of sorts. The lacy, blue one, she thinks. Santana likes that specific combo because the bra unclasps at the front. Just as she's making her way to the dresser, though, Brittany throws a glance to the clock on her nightstand, and freezes.

It's five forty-five.

Fifteen minutes to when she wants to start filming.

Fifteen minutes after Santana was supposed to show up.

Her best friend is only fashionably late to parties. Never to sleepovers. Never to school. And certainly never to when Brittany's about to publicly declare her love for her.

Except maybe that last one's an exception.

Immediately, Brittany dives for her phone on the bed. She's thinking of what could possibly be holding the Latina up. An accident. Traffic jam. Forgetfulness. Her mind jumps from one conclusion to another.

She flips open her cell. One text message from Santana, received fifteen minutes after Brittany started getting ready. Brittany can't believe she didn't set her phone off of silent mode from when she was in school. Clicking to view the message, the blonde holds her breath.

**I can't.**

After taking a moment to catch her breath, Brittany calls her. Five rings. Then voicemail. She tries again.

Five rings. Voicemail.

Once more. Come on.

Straight to voicemail.

Damn it.

She types out a text message and sends it: **What do you mean you can't? What happened?**

When it's six-oh-eight and there's still no reply, Brittany throws her phone at the wall. It breaks into smithereens. Charity high-tails it out of the bathroom like the devil itself is chasing her.

Brittany takes her head in her hands and lets out a single sob. "Fuck," she mutters. The curse feels foreign on her tongue. But she likes the way it feels. "Fuck," she repeats. "Fuck. Shit. Avada kadavra. Fuck."

She instantly feels bad when she realizes it sounds like these are aimed at Santana. Brittany would never in her life swear at her, nor would she want to put a killing curse on her. But she also feels better after flinging them out to the world, as if punishing it for making Santana feel the way she does, and for subsequently making Brittany feel even worse.

To her left, her video camera is set up on its tripod. She hired Jacob Ben Israel to come over to pick up the tape and edit it before it's going to be posted. She already paid him.

Brittany sighs. The show must go on.

Crap.

"… Hey, Lord Tubbington…?"

/*/

_Fondue for two! Fondue for two! That's some hot dish. Fondue for two!_

/*/

At nine o'clock on the nose, Brittany posts the latest episode from her laptop. It's humiliating, to say the least.

Now in the comfort of her pajamas, she flops unceremoniously back on her pillows and lets out what feels like the billionth shaky sigh that evening. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Lord Tubbington clawing his way onto the bed next to her, purring loudly as he approaches. Brittany flips her hair out of her face and reaches to grab him, placing him gently on her chest. His eyes begin to drift close as she scratches behind his ear.

"Thanks for filling in last-minute," she whispers, staring at him intensely. He opens his eyes again to meet her gaze before he closes them once more.

"No," Brittany sniffles as tears begin to fall. Again. "I'm not really mad at her. I'm just sad."

The cat's ear twitches.

"Yeah, it has been kind of a bad week." She moves her hand to his fat neck, where she itches below his collar for him. Or, at least she tries to. She can barely fit her index finger under there. "I think you need a new one of these, buddy. This one got pretty tight all of a sudden."

Lord Tubbington reopens in eyes.

"I didn't mean to change the subject. And to answer your question, no. I guess I don't _need_ a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend." Brittany stops petting her cat for a moment to wipe her eyes. "I just… I don't know. I _wanted_ her to be my girlfriend. I wanted it to be official that she could kiss me and only me. Because I just want to kiss her and only her. You know?"

His eyes close again. His low purr hitches.

"Tubby, you know I love talking to you. I can talk to you about things I can't talk to anyone else about. And what I don't tell you, you read from my diary. You know everything about me, but sometimes that's just not enough, you know?"

Steady purring.

Brittany sniffles again, blinking away the last of her tears. "Yeah, I forgive you for smoking. But me and Charity both wish you'd stop."

Lord Tubbington's tail curls itself around his fat, which is so splayed out that it covers Brittany's entire torso.

"I love you, too."

As she settles her head back and closes her own eyes, a meow arises from the bathroom.

"And you, too, Char."

Another meow.

"Yeah, yeah. Good night, you two."

/*/

**Author's note (ii): **(Revised 24/8/11) Okay, chapter two will be finished within a day or two. It will be beta'd within a week after that. So let's call it two weeks to be safe. Thank you all for your patience, and stuff! And extra props to Hannah, again.


	2. Friday

**Author's note (i):** This chapter is drastically longer than the first one, but that's because it's the entire day rather than the end of one. That's the pattern that will be held up throughout the rest of the story, just so you know. At least that means more action! Quick note: the way the _Glee_ storyline goes in my written universe, Quinn and Sam get back together after the "Trouty Mouth" incident in "Original Song." Okay? Okay. Let me thank Hannah at least one more time, for being just kind of awesome and stuff. Enjoy, and maybe review? No pressure.

/*/

Friday

/*/

Sometime after midnight, Brittany tosses in her sleep so violently it throws both her cats to the floor. In her dream, she walks down the desolate hallways of William McKinley, the squeaking of her white sneakers the only sound. She clutches the straps of her backpack so hard they dig into her bare shoulders. Her heart is beating frantically, and suddenly she breaks into a dead run. Until, finally turning a corner towards the choir room, she halts. Ahead of her is the back of a girl with long, black hair and tan skin. She is leaning against a familiar locker.

"Santana!" Brittany cries out. The person ahead of her appears not to have heard anything. She tries again—"Santana!"—to no avail. The girl refuses to turn to look at her.

Brittany again begins to run. When she's close enough, she holds out her hand and grabs Santana's shoulder to whip her around. But, sometime mid-twirl, it's no longer Santana. Pluto, standing on two legs, stares back at her.

"I really do feel quite oppressed," he states plainly.

"You don't have to," Brittany replies, unphased, reaching up to caress one of his long ears. "You have the ability to walk and talk in front of others, you know. You're strong. You don't have to hide. It doesn't have to be like this."

"But I can't." Pluto shakes his head sadly. "People are watching and judging me."

"I'll do it with you!" she pleads as she grabs both his shoulders. "You're not alone."

He shakes her hands off and steps back. Pluto lowers his front paws to the ground where they "belong," wagging his tail half-heartedly. "Thank you for caring," he says quietly, sincerely. "But you can't change anything, Britt. Please just leave me alone." He turns and trots away, calling behind him as he departs, "Be mindful of water."

"What? Please, wait! What do you mean?" She steps forward to follow, but her foot slips. Her legs fall out from beneath her, and she's hurled to the ground.

Back in Brittany's bedroom, her leg lurches hard enough to wake her. The blonde sits up quickly, hand flying to her chest and breathing erratic. She looks warily around her room and thinks about calling Santana before she remembers. For good measure, she looks to the ground beside her bed. Her phone lies exactly where she left it, broken in three pieces.

Brittany quickly realizes by her noticeable visibility that she left her bedroom light on. She hesitantly gets up to pad across the carpet and switches it off. As the room is engulfed in darkness, though, she gulps. Pluto's desperate face is everywhere: hiding in the corner, under her bed, behind her desk chair. She flips the switch until the ceiling lamp illuminates again. Shakily, Brittany makes her way back to bed, crawls as far under the covers as she can, and once more falls into a fitful sleep.

/*/

Seven o'clock eventually finds its way to Brittany and her alarm clock wakes her from another frightful dream. Rising falteringly, she waits until she's awake enough to slowly make her way downstairs to the kitchen. From the cupboard next to the fridge, she grabs a glass and holds it under the water dispenser on the freezer door. On its way to her lips, though, she pauses and moves the glass to eye level. She turns towards the window, examining the water carefully in the sunlight. But all she sees are a few sparse bubbles floating to the surface.

"That Pluto," she muses softly, and drinks.

/*/

From the moment she arrives at school Brittany waits by Santana's locker until the first bell rings. Being tall, she can easily look over the heads of the crowd surging through the hallway. Unfortunately, there's no sign of Santana anywhere.

She sighs. The hallway is clearing out quickly and she needs to get to geometry on time if she wants to avoid another detention. Figuring Santana chickened out of stopping by her own locker (since she probably—and smartly—assumed Brittany would be waiting), the blonde gives up and begins to walk towards her class across the hallway. On her first step, though, her foot unexpectedly slides forward. Brittany flails out her arm and is able to catch herself on the lockers before she can actually fall. Grunting, she looks beneath her. A pile of red slush is drying stickily on the linoleum.

As she takes a moment to catch her breath, she looks behind her to see if anyone saw her slip. It was humiliating enough interviewing her cat on _Fondue for Two_, last night; she needs to play it cool lest she becomes the laughingstock of the junior class. Rounding the corner at that very moment, however, is Santana, who stops in her tracks once she and Brittany make eye contact. A guilty look immediately overtakes her feature.

"Santana," Brittany starts, softly stepping over the mess to avoid tripping again. But in her carefulness, she is unable to chase after Santana as the Latina turns tail and disappears down the perpendicular hallway.

Tears instantly threaten against Brittany's eyelids. She squeezes them shut to try and ward them off, but a few rogue drops spill down her cheeks. Without a second thought, she turns on her heel and begins to run to her next class, forgetting the slushy mess still rotting on the ground. She slips almost comically and falls on her ass.

/*/

All through math, Brittany sits uncomfortably as the seat of her pants goes from cold to sticky to itchy as hell. She silently thanks Whoever's-Up-There that she keeps an extra pair of shorts in her locker, which she rushes to change into the moment the bell releases her from class.

Over the course of the next two periods, she runs into Santana both times before class. Her friend—or so-called friend—quickly drops her head and turns the other direction each time. Having to get to her own classes, Brittany can only stare at her shoulder blades with sad eyes and continue on.

But at lunch, Brittany has all the time in the world. She stalks Santana through the lunch line to her table to the hallway and into the girls' bathroom all within fifteen minutes, trying to get her to explain her actions from the night before. So far, Santana hasn't made a single noise in reply.

When they enter the restroom, however, Santana turns suddenly and reaches her hand towards Brittany. Her breath hitches in her throat, but the blonde is quickly disappointed when it turns out she was only locking the door behind them. The retracting brush of her hand across Brittany's arm, though separated by a long-sleeved shirt, still burns her in the best way possible despite her overwhelming sadness.

Santana's careful to look in every stall. Only once she's assured that the room is vacant, that she and Brittany are completely alone, does she let her bitchy guard down and looks at Brittany with the most apologetic eyes possible.

Brittany immediately begins to tear up. She opens her mouth to speak, but only the tiniest of squeaks escapes. Bringing her hand up to wipe her eyes, she motions her free hand towards Santana, signaling that she should say something first.

Instead of apologizing immediately, Santana brings up her arms and wraps them around her friend's torso. Brittany clings to her neck as she sobs quietly.

"Babe," Santana chokes out around what Brittany assumes is a lump in her throat. "Babe," she repeats, steadier, "I am so sorry."

"You promised," is all Brittany can say to the crook of Santana's neck as she continues to cry. Her face is already becoming hot and moist there, but she pushes herself impossibly closer, wishing she could just melt into her.

"I couldn't," Santana rushes to explain. She pulls enough away from Brittany to look her in the eyes. "I'm sorry, but I'm not ready for the whole school to know about me. I'm never going to be. I just couldn't."

Brittany is suddenly filled with anger. Or, at least the closest Brittany can get to anger, especially when the love of her life is standing next to her. Still, she's frustrated at minimum. She pushes further away and drops her arms to her sides. Her hands clench into fists.

"And what about me?" Brittany asks. "It's not exactly going to be easy for me with the bullies here either. But I was willing to do that for you." She takes the time to wipe her face with her sleeve. "You weren't going to go through it alone."

Santana doesn't visibly become irritated, but it's apparent that she's suddenly less sympathetic. Her guard's back up, and that devastates Brittany. "Britt—" she takes a step forward, but refuses to meet her eyes, "—I know you would've. I realize you were going to. And I know I wouldn't have been alone, but just because you were by my side wouldn't have made the harassment and the teasing any better." She looks around once more out of pure paranoia before dropping her voice again. "I love you," she says softly, "But you're just going to have to deal with it for now. You can't change anything, Britt."

_You can't change anything, Britt._ The déjà vu is enough to make Brittany's head spin. Or maybe it's just confusion about why Santana is so scared. Either way, she feels like she's going to throw up.

Brittany raises both of her hands to cup Santana's cheeks (which of them it's meant to comfort, she's not sure), but before they make contact there's a firm rapping on the bathroom door behind her. Santana slaps her hands away without really thinking. Brittany retracts her entire body from her until she's flush against the door, as if she's been burned (in the bad way). Immediately, the Latina looks sorry, and she opens her mouth like she's about to apologize when the knocking continues. So instead, she nudges Brittany aside as gently as she can without being violent and unlocks the door.

When some nameless girl finally pushes open the door, she freezes at the sight of the duo. Santana puts her bitch face back on and physically shoves the girl out of the way with her arm. Brittany tries her best to follow suit. "Wait!" she begins to call after her, voice shaking with the effort.

Santana doesn't wait. She walks away even faster and calls over her shoulder in a quiet voice, "Please just leave me alone."

Before Brittany can say anything more, Jacob Ben Israel swoops in front of her and begins to follow Santana himself. He's asking her questions—for the Muckraker, she's sure—but Brittany's really not listening anymore. She just decides to make a beeline for her locker to collect her stuff so she can get to class as quickly as possible. Unfortunately, Santana's next class is across from her locker, so she's forced to walk behind the two all the way there.

The minute she's close enough, Brittany throws open her locker and begins replacing one book for another. Santana stands across the hall in the doorway of her class. Jacob still has his microphone in her face.

"Look," Brittany catches her explain, "all I can say is that Dave and I are going strong—" She pauses to meet Brittany's steady gaze. Again, she looks away guiltily. "—and we're very excited about our prom king and queen campaign. Vote Santofsky," she adds for good measure.

"So you two are in love?" Jacob presses. "Soulmates, so to speak?"

Brittany continues to stare at Santana, worrying her bottom lip between her teeth. As the Latina looks up once more to meet her eyes, Brittany feels a glimmer of hope. The smallest glimmer that maybe, just maybe, Santana will give up the charade and tell the truth: that Dave and her aren't real. That Brittany is the only one she loves and wants to be with.

Instead, Santana gives the slightest of nods. Brittany's heart drops to the pit of her stomach, and she feels completely and utterly—for lack of a word that fits better—stupid.

"Yeah," Santana responds, still looking squarely at the blonde across from her, "I'd say that was accurate." Then she turns and finally escapes into the classroom, efficiently ending Jacob's line of questioning, though he still holds the microphone up to no one in particular.

Brittany looks at the ground, as if there's an answer there. There's not, she's heartbroken to see.

There are two more periods left in the school day. But Brittany, despite the fact that the only reason she's passing those classes at all are by the participation points, decides that she is just not in the damn mood. She roughly throws her book back in the locker, slams it shut, and walks out the back door of the school

/*/

Since the school bus doesn't run for those who skip class, Brittany decides that it's a perfectly nice enough day outside to walk. But the thing is she really doesn't feel like going straight home. If she does, she'll have nothing to do but stare at the picture of her and Santana on her desk and cry until she falls asleep. She really doesn't feel like crying right now. Plus, the cats will absolutely chew her out for ditching. They're total pains in the ass that way; it's fine for them to break the rules, but when Brittany wants to get a little crazy, no sir, no way, no how!

She's already pretty annoyed just thinking of the berating she's in for if she goes home early. So, once she sets foot on the sidewalk, instead of turning left to go home, she turns right to—well, to kill time. There's bound to be something that way of the school, right?

Just as reaches the end of the block, Brittany remembers that yes indeed, there is something interesting ahead of her. A mile down from the school is the Lima Strip Mall, a little collection of shops that could barely be considered a legitimate strip mall. There's no Abercrombie & Fitch or Bebe or GUESS or anything. But there are the quirkiest little stores and a farmer's market. It's quaint and cute and exactly the kind of place to make her feel better. Brittany's so excited thinking about it that she forgets about Santana entirely and practically runs.

When she finally arrives twenty minutes later, she's a bit sweaty and out of breath, but she's fit to bust. She practically skips through the shopping center, admiring the most adorable of trinkets through the windows of each store. Within half an hour, she's almost made a complete circle around the plaza. As she's finishing browsing, her eye catches on a sign ahead of her by a couple of shops.

"Dessa's Darling Dog Depot," it reads. It's very subtle; simple black letters with a paw print painted beside the name. But something about it makes the entire store look so charming; perhaps it's the way the bright sunshine hits the building at just the right angle. For whatever reason, Brittany skips over the rest of the shops to look through its window. She doesn't have a dog, but she remembers that Lord Tubbington needs a bigger collar. And, by now, he's most definitely doggy-sized.

She pushes the door open and steps inside; a set of bells on the knob announces her entrance. Next to the counter lays a dog of ambiguous breed. But it's big and it's brown and it wags its tail at Brittany who doesn't really care as long as it's friendly. She pats its head as she continues further into the store.

"Welcome, honey," a warm voice oozes from behind her. Brittany turns and is greeted by a large black woman. She wears a yellow cloth around her hair piled on top of her head, and her arms are loaded down with beaded bracelets. As she reaches to grab Brittany's hand, the beads clink together melodiously.

"Hi," the blonde greets with the biggest smile she can muster—which is pretty damn big. "Are you Dessa?"

"Odessa, to be formal." She returns the grin. Brittany's instantly hypnotized by her accent. She went on a cruise around the Caribbean for spring break last year, and the local ladies followed her around asking her if they could braid her hair; they had a very similar tilt in their voices. She loves it. "But yes, that be me," Dessa continues, interrupting Brittany's thoughts. "What can I do you for, child?"

"Oh, yeah." She turns back to the shelves. "I was looking for a collar."

"Of course!" The woman takes Brittany by the elbow and leads her to a display. She motions over it grandly with her hand; the bracelets continue chiming. She notices the girl looks a bit overwhelmed at the selections, so she asks, "How big you need it now?"

Brittany scratches her head. "Pretty big, I guess." She makes a circle with her two hands, stretching it out to how big she thinks Lord Tubbington's neck is. She stops and holds it up for Dessa to inspect. "About this size?"

"That's not so big. I got something for you right here." Dessa runs her hand over the display as she searches. "What breed is he now?"

"Grey tabby."

The woman's hand stops midair. She snaps her head in Brittany's direction, smile gone, eyes wide. "A cat?"

When Brittany nods, Dessa flings herself as far back as possible, hitting her back against the main counter. The dog stands as quickly as it can, looking back and forth between his owner and the new girl. Dessa has her hands up, her index fingers in front of her in the shape of a cross. "Leave," she commands darkly.

Brittany stays rooted to the spot, partially out of fear and partially because she's already had an awful day and doesn't need to be yelled at by some stranger. "Why? What have you got against cats?"

Dessa's fingers remain crossed. "What do I have against them?" she asks incredulously. "They are home to evil spirits. The devil. Bad juju."

A giggle escapes Brittany's lips. "Juju?" she clarifies, fighting a smile. She hears the woman practically growl under her breath. "I know my kitty's not the nicest, but he's not evil," she rushes to explain. Despite the almost humorous phrasing, what Dessa is telling her is relatively creeping her the hell out.

"If you know what's good for you, you'll kick that cat out on its ass," Dessa warns. "Or get a dog to protect you." She nods her head to the canine that now stands defensively next to her. He still eyes Brittany warily.

"I'm not really a dog person—" she's interrupted by Dessa's loud gasp. She stops, terrified of what might happen if she insults the crazy woman any further.

The shop-owner's voice is low and almost menacing as she speaks. "What do you mean you're 'not a dog person.'"

Brittany smiles apologetically, oblivious to the threat in Dessa's tone, and gives a half-hearted shrug. "I love dogs, don't get me wrong. I just like cats better. That's all."

Dessa looks ready to give Brittany the verbal throw-down of the century. But as quickly as she opens her mouth as wide as it appears it can go, she closes it again and lowers her finger-made crucifix. "Wait here," she instructs. She soon disappears through a door in the back of the shop.

The dog looks from the door to Brittany again.

"Hi. I'm Brittany. And I like you even though I'm not a dog person." She waves at him. He just blinks.

Loudly, the door reopens. Dessa appears with something in her hand. She tosses it to Brittany, muttering, "Take this."

Brittany catches the unidentified flying object easily and looks down to further examine it. It's a collar. Light blue, but otherwise plain. It's actually kind of dingy, if anything. "What's so special about this one that it had to be in the back?" she asks.

The other woman shrugs. A dark smile creeps over her lips. "It's for cats. And their people."

The blonde is just happy she's escaping the store with a collar in hand and no physical harm inflicted, so she's quick to forget Dessa's previous attitude. "Thanks!" she says through a grin, "How much?"

"Just take it—" Dessa points to the door. "—and go. Now."

"Oh, okay." Brittany warily sidesteps across the store and pulls the door open. The bells jingle with the movement. The sun is so bright she needs to cover her eyes for a moment. She looks back to the large woman and adds, "Thank you."

"You rethink dogs now," Dessa states as she rubs her pet's ears. He wags his tail and leans into her touch. "And," she adds with a grave smile, "be mindful of water, you hear."

"Water?" Brittany asks. Where has she heard that before? She looks back outside to point out the beautiful weather, only to see that the perfect blue sky has suddenly been replaced with angry, dark clouds. Thunder rumbles in the distance. She turns back to address the woman, but Dessa has disappeared. The dog remains, staring stoically at Brittany.

Thoroughly spooked, she exits the shop as fast as possible; the bells ring behind her as the door slams shut. She rushes back to the sidewalk and hurries in the direction of the school and, subsequently, her home.

/*/

The sky is getting darker by the second, and Brittany's fast walk turns into a sprint when the first droplets of water fall. The drizzle quickly transforms into a torrential downpour, and soon the rain is so heavy that it's falling into Brittany's eyes and making it impossible to see. She lifts her hands, still holding the collar, to shield her eyes momentarily, and notices that she's right by a park. Seeing a large tree only thirty-ish feet away, Brittany decides that it will be best to take cover until the rain lets up rather than trying to blindly navigate her way home across busy, slippery streets. It looks the tree is holding out its arms to embrace her so she bolts for the protective branches. A streak of lightning flashes across the sky and the growl that follows it scares Brittany's legs into moving impossibly faster.

Underneath the tree, it's still relatively soggy; the mud squishes beneath Brittany's shoes and the trunk is dark with dampness. But the canopy is doing a pretty good job by itself, with only a couple drops falling from the leaves above. The girl lets out a sigh of relief and drops her soaked backpack to the ground. She drops the collar alongside it long enough to ring most of the water out of her hair and clothes, but she quickly picks it back up.

Something about this collar's weird—she holds it close to her eyes and raises her eyebrow—but nothing's immediately alarming about it. It's kind of old-fashioned, with a metal buckle rather than a plastic clip. On its smallest setting it could easily fit Lord Tubbington, but it really looks like it's meant for larger animals.

_It's for cats. And their people. _Dessa must've seen some pretty big cats in her lifetime. Maybe that's why she hates them; she saw one so big once it scared her out of her wits. Or something.

Brittany turns the collar around in her hand again. It really is pretty big. It could probably fit her own neck, at the very least.

An idea crosses her mind that makes her smile in the silliest way. She needs to entertain herself somehow while the rain settles down (which it doesn't look like is going to happen for a long, _long_ while). And there's nothing in her backpack except for a tube of Chapstick and the typical school planner that gets handed out at the beginning of every year. So Brittany excitedly wraps the collar around her own neck and adjusts it to her size. She thinks to herself that it matches her eyes just perfectly. If Brittany had a tail, it'd be wagging like there was no tomorrow.

"Meow," Brittany mutters under her breath. She wanders around the tree dreamily, looking down at her feet in the mud and imagining they're paws. "Meow, meow. Purr." The dancer gracefully leaps over an above-ground root and splashes muck everywhere. She giggles gleefully.

The sky roars above her, completely forgotten. She doesn't notice the energy building in the clouds.

Brittany pounces on a particularly fun looking puddle. Had her socks not already been soaked by rain, they would've been in her playful splashing.

A surge of light erupts from the storm, hurling itself to the earth.

"Woof," the blonde whispers, still smiling and entranced by the ripples her feet make in the water.

Lightning strikes the very highest tip of the tree above her. Electricity pulses down the branch and through the thick trunk to the very end of each of its roots. The standing water on the ground makes it almost too easy for the current to pass from the tree to the ground to the rather large puddle of water where Brittany now plays unawares.

Absolutely no warning precedes the shock, and before Brittany can register what even just happened she feels her entire body—limbs, torso, neck, everything—go terrifyingly limp. She suddenly recalls when she was six years old and stuck her finger in the socket of her first grade classroom after Puck triple dog dared her. Brittany didn't hold it there long enough to do any serious damage, but she remembered that she ended up getting a nasty bruise at the end of her finger. No teacher was present to punish Puck at the time, so Santana took it upon herself to break his nose.

The electricity courses from her body to the collar around her neck. When it reaches the metal of the buckle, a spark emits and falls to the ground. At any other time, Brittany would've thought it was pretty. But she isn't able to see it at all.

A literal millisecond after the lightning first touched the tree, Brittany passes out. Her body falls to the ground as startlingly loud thunder quakes the ground beneath her.

/*/

The first conscious thought Brittany has upon waking up is that her entire body feels tingly. Fuzzy, almost. It's completely unnatural, but so is passing out when she was only playing in the mud.

It's a day of firsts, she supposes.

Her eyelids flutter open. She can't see the street, just the trunk of the tree. But at least she can still see, so she thinks it'd be smart to take things one step at a time.

Step one. Is she alive? She's breathing, so yes, that's an accurate assumption. Brittany releases a sigh of relief. That's the most important, she thinks: living. This is good.

Step two. Can she see? Already established. Easy. So far, everything's fine.

Step three. Can she move? A momentary panic overtakes her. Her mind flashes to Artie and, as awful as she feels thinking it, she imagines how terrible it would be to be like him. Paralyzed, she means. Her dancing career would be over; she wouldn't even be able to walk down the aisle at her own graduation or wedding—

She pauses to steady her breathing. Before she gives up all her hopes and dreams, Brittany decides it might be a bit helpful to try to move first. Hesitantly, she commands her arms to stretch. And they do; she can feel her front limbs move and her fingers curl. Her legs stretch out with them, toes twitching with the effort. She's so relieved she could cry. Out of uncontrollable happiness, she feels her tail pump against the still wet ground on its own accord.

Pleasantly, she notes that the rain appears to have stopped—

Wait.

Tail.

What the hell!

Her upper body shoots up from the ground. She forgets how to breathe for as long as it takes to turn her head to look at her butt. But when she actually lays eye on her hindquarters, her chest feels like it's collapsed upon itself. Indeed, there is a fluffy, yellow, totally _not pretend_ tail hanging limply off her ass.

Or, what she assumes is her ass, because what she really sees in a furry rump with little animal legs and paws.

Brittany looks down at what she thought would be her hands holding her up. They're paws, too. Paws with four stumpy, hairy digits apiece.

It's only now that the blonde notices that there's an obstruction in her usual line of vision in the form of a wet, black nose at the end of a very inhuman muzzle.

Brittany tries to cry out—in surprise, in anguish—but what erupts from her throat can only be described as an animalistic whine.

The first instinct she had is to stand and run as fast as she can to the hospital. I mean, if they managed to rip a baby out of celibate Quinn Fabray, they should be able to rip the real Brittany out of this body, right?

As she lifts her behind out of the dirt and tries to rise, though, she can't. On all fours, she pushes her hands—or feet, paws, whatever—as hard as she can manage to try to get into a standing position. She's simply incapable of lifting her front two paws off the ground for more than a couple of moments. Brittany recalls when she was twelve and first added tumbling classes to her already impressive dance resume. A simple handstand for her proved impossible at first; her wrists were too weak, not built to hold a body upright. Her legs naturally righted themselves again on solid floor.

Panting from exhaustion—or because she can't breathe right due to freaking the fuck out, or out of instinct because it's kind of muggy out and her newly-attained fur seems awfully heavy—Brittany sits back on her hind legs tries to sort every thought surging through her head, which, by the way, already hurts without all this worrying. What happened? All she can remember is playing in the mud. There was a storm.

A storm? Brittany looks to the sky. It was a lightning storm, she's sure it was. But she always heard people were safe from lightning under trees. Or was it when they were in the open, and away from tall things like trees? Or were people only safe inside houses? Maybe she should've just gone home right after school; if her cats will be mad that she skipped, imagine how mad they'll be when they found out she's a dog.

Brittany would cry if she thought it would help. But she really thinks the only thing that could possibly help now would be to go home and try to sleep it off. This was probably just another really bad dream. Since she had a dream about Pluto last night, that she'd imagine herself as a poor, oppressed dog that can't stand or talk or vote seems to be the natural progression.

She helps herself up onto all fours, stepping hesitantly in the mud to pick up her backpack. Her paw automatically reaches out for it when she remembers, right, no thumbs. Instead, Brittany opens her mouth to take it, but oh my God it tastes _so _gross. It's bitter and soggy and dank and ugh.

"Forget it," she tries to mumble. Only a soft growl can be heard.

Tentatively, she makes her way to the sidewalk. Walking on four feet is certainly strange, but also feels oddly natural. It only takes until she steps onto the cement for her to become confident that she won't trip and fall into the street.

As she walks, a car or two slow to look at her, but most pass by uncaring. Although she knows she'd rather go straight home, it concerns Brittany that not a single person stops to try to find out where she belongs. She knows for a fact that if she saw a dog walking around by itself, she'd at least make sure it was safely away from traffic.

Soon enough, William McKinley comes into view. Closer to home, Brittany wishes she could sigh with relief. Cars are still exiting the lot as she approaches it, trying to figure a safe way to cross without getting run over. As it is now there really isn't one, so it's probably best to wait.

She's about to sit when she sees Quinn's car still in its spot in the front row. It's strange, because the other blonde is usually antsy to get right home after school. Since she's no longer occupied by the Cheerios and there wasn't supposed to be Glee practice again until Monday as Mr. Schue had some appointment or other, Brittany doesn't understand why she'd still be here. Maybe she wants to hang out with Sam because they are back together after all and—

Brittany's thoughts are interrupted when she finally sees Quinn emerge from the front doors of the school, not with the big-lipped football player by her side, but with none other than Santana—who, by the way, looks pissed. From the entrance of the parking lot, Brittany's now heavy (and floppy, she assumes) ears perk up considerably. From fifty feet away, she can hear the two girls' conversation as they approach their respective vehicles.

"I'm telling you, S," Quinn idly explains as she fiddles with her car keys. "She wasn't in Spanish. I would know."

"Not necessarily. You didn't know that Sam only came crawling back to you because I dumped his pouty mouth."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "One, you didn't break up with Sam. He broke up with you because you're a vicious bitch—"

"Thank you," Santana interrupts, pretending to dust off her overalls.

"Two," the other girl continues, "Brittany ditched. She always sits next to me. And she always leans over my shoulder to cheat on conjugations. My shoulder remained completely un-looked-over, so I can logically figure no Britt was there."

Santana digs into her pocket and checks her phone. "She hasn't texted me or anything."

"Well, when did you see her last?"

Brittany, still listening, can still feel her heart sink despite the new body that houses it. She observes that it looks like Santana's does too. "Lunch."

"And what did you say to her that upset this time?" Brittany could laugh at how well Quinn knows her and Santana (well, once again, she would if she could but she can't). Why did they stop hanging out, again?

Santana is immediately defensive. "I didn't say anything to her! I mean, yeah, I did— but nothing that would piss her off."

"I'm sure."

"Regardless of your being a bitch, can you text her too? You know…" Her words trail off. She looks again worriedly at the screen of her phone.

"In case she's ignoring you?" Quinn finishes.

"Yeah."

Brittany's chest aches at Santana's concern. She's done watching the scene, she can't let her girlfriend—or not, who cares—mope around wondering if she's okay. Brittany rises and, seeing that the lot has cleared a bit, rushes to the pair that now lean against Quinn's car. When she gets close enough, she calls out Santana's name. Of course, only a bark erupts from her throat. Nevertheless, both of her friends hear it, and turn to face the flash of blonde fur barreling towards them at full speed.

"What the fu—" is all Santana can manage to rasp out before the animal is on her, paws on both of her shoulders. Brittany is long as the Latina is tall, so brown eyes meet brown—not her usual blue—without much trouble. Santana stares in horror as the creature looks at her like she's the best thing in the world while it wags its tail hard enough to knock someone out. But Brittany, any anger from earlier completely dissipated, is fit to bust. Incapable of holding in her excitement at seeing her best friend, she leans forward and plants one on her, uncaring of Quinn's prying eyes.

"Planting one on her," however, might've been mutually enjoyable if she were a girl again. Instead, Santana ends up getting licked right on her mouth, which, to be frank, grosses her the fuck out.

Quinn, though, is almost on the ground in hysteria.

"Oh my God!" Santana shrieks, pushing the beast off of her to the best of her ability. Brittany tries to crawl back up her body, but is only shoved down again. "Down, you disgusting mongrel! Down!"

"Santana!" Quinn instantly scolds. "It's just a dog. A dog that, for whatever reason, seems to like you a lot. Do you know him?"

Him? Brittany turns her head towards the other blonde and tries to pout.

"Of course I don't! Do I look like the kind of person to fraternize with flea-bags?"

An awkward silence.

"Don't you even—"

"Come here, puppy," Quinn coos as she crouches, effectively interrupting Santana. She reaches her hands out. Brittany hesitates, throwing one last glance at her best friend. Santana scowls at her. "Come on," her other friend urges, "I'm way nicer than that bitch."

"Because that's really sweet."

Quinn gives her a pointed stare before turning her attention back to the dog. "Come here, boy."

Brittany sniffs rebelliously. If Quinn keeps up with that, there's no way she's going to let he pet her.

"How about girl? Come here, _girl_?"

That's much better. She tentatively wags her tail and gently makes her way over to the girl before her. Quinn immediately scratches behind her ears in just the right spot and oh gosh that feels good.

"That's a good girl. Good doggy."

Santana looks like she wants to vomit. "How can you touch that thing? It might have mange."

"She's a golden retriever, Santana. Not a rat. Plus she has a collar. She belongs to someone."

_A collar?_ Wait, the collar! Hold on a—

"It probably has fucking rabies," she counters.

Quinn rolls her eyes and stands up again. She fiddles with the collar (the one Brittany had failed to notice was still on her neck), turning it around every which way. "There's no tag."

"See? No one wanted it. Probably for good reason."

"No, it fell off. Some family is most likely looking for her right now."

The two argue over Brittany, whose frustration for Santana reemerges as she hears her tell Quinn just how disgusting she is. She realizes that, of course, if she were in her regular form right now, Santana would _never_ be talking about her like this. But still. For the first time in her life, Brittany is the target of her best friend's "I-keep-it-real-and-I'm-hilarious" campaign. And it sucks.

On the other hand, it _was_ just moments ago that Santana was worrying about where Brittany was. That was nice. Santana really isn't a bad person, just angry and frustrated and confused inside. So she comes off as a bitch. Isn't that exactly was she told Brittany herself?

Suddenly, Brittany's very aware that Quinn just whistled very loudly in her direction while she was looking over Santana. She swivels her head in her direction to see that Quinn has her car's back door open and is patting the seat.

"Come here, girl. I'm going to take you home," she explains. "I don't want you running around on the streets. I'll help you find your family. Come on, doggy."

Weren't there public service announcements about stuff like this? Don't let people persuade you to get into their cars if they don't know you, and stuff? Sure, Brittany knows Quinn, but Quinn doesn't technically know the dog sitting in front of her. Brittany tries to remember the password her mother grilled into her head when she was much younger, in case someone Brittany wasn't familiar with had to pick her up from school in the event of an emergency. "No code, no go!" her mother would remind her each morning in a singsong voice.

Meanwhile, Quinn's relentless. "Come on, girl. Get in the car. I have a nice house with a big backyard. It's just for a little while, I promise."

Out of habit, Brittany rises to get closer to Santana, wondering if it's okay with her if she goes with Quinn. As she approaches, though, the Latina tries to shoo her. "Away from me, blondie. Go away."

Brittany persists, and practically sits on Santana's feet. If that's not cute, she doesn't know what is. That's _got_ to win Santana over.

Unfortunately, it doesn't. At all. When Santana works her clogs from under Brittany, she gives her rump a little kick and grumbles, "Dumb dog."

_Dumb dog. Dumb dog. Dumb. Dumb. Dumb._

Brittany reels back from the kick. Really, especially by Santana's standards, it was quite gentle. But it's like from the bathroom earlier, when she smacked Brittany's hands. She feels as if she's been burned. Top it all off with being called the d-word, and she's ready to crawl under a rock and die.

So Brittany runs, tail between her legs, feeling the embarrassment hit her again full force like it did after Santana's awful "soulmates" comment. As she bolts, she can hear the voices of her friends bicker behind her—"You _do _know cruelty to animals is illegal?" "I barely touched it! That beast's a pansy." "She's a _golden retriever_!"—but they begin to fade the faster and further she goes.

/*/

It's not until she turns down a very familiar street a minute or two later (it's amazing how quickly two extra legs can take a person) that Brittany even realizes she's going home. To some extent, she's relieved. It's been a long, confusing day, and she'll be glad to crawl into a bed and nap. But there's still the fact that she's, well, a canine now. And she doesn't know how to fix it or if she can fix it and just thinking about it makes her head hurt and she really does just want to sleep.

Soon enough, there's her house, just as she left it. Brittany half-expected it to magically turn into a dog house, but nope. She's glad.

When she makes it to the garage door, however, her heart falls when she realizes that fingers are required to punch in the code and let the door up. Fingers that she does not have. Propping her front two paws on the wall, Brittany uses her nose to open the door to the device. Carefully, she balances on only one paw as she lifts the other to try and press the first number. Brittany tries to press the "2" button; she ends up selecting the entire number pad.

Already frustrated, she gives up and trots to the front door. Her mother would be proud that Brittany was very thorough in locking up the house, but right now she wants to kick herself. She peeks through the thin, wall length window on the side of the door. Brittany could jump with glee when she spies both of her cats napping side-by-side on the stairs in front of the foyer.

She lets out a sharp yip. Charity remains motionless, but Lord Tubbington lifts his head slowly and looks towards the window. Brittany gives a soft bark again. The tabby in front of her, very much to her surprise, immediately bristles and stands. His back arches defensively, and she can hear him hiss from outside.

Brittany whines, lying down on her front porch in an attempt to lessen the intimidation. It doesn't work. Lord Tubbington is uncharacteristically fast as he bolts up the stairs. Charity wakes in his ruckus and, when she sees the doggy in the window, follows suite as fast as her legs can take her.

Defeated, Brittany lays her head on her front paws. Not being able to get into her own home and having her own cats hiss in hatred at the sight of her, on top of Santana and tripping in slush and being turned into an animal, officially makes it the worst day of her life.

She cries as only the saddest of dogs can. Her maybe-girlfriend slash best friend hates her now and her feline best friends hate her and when her parents and sister come home to find Brittany missing they'll be so worried that they'll hate her for disappearing and she feels so alone that she wishes some dogcatcher would come grab her and throw her in a pound but people will look at her every day there being so sad and they'll hate her too and Brittany will be left to be a miserable mess for the rest of her depressing doggy life.

Brittany is so busy wallowing in her own self-pity that she doesn't hear the car stop rather suddenly in front of her house. Only when a car door slams is she aware of the person heading straight her way. She picks her head up, but is scared to turn and look in case it really is a dogcatcher. Brittany doesn't really want to go to the pound. She may be naïve, but she knows what happens to dogs that are in the shelter too long without being adopted.

"Is that you, pup?" The familiar voice instantly relieves her, and Brittany rises to greet Quinn as she comes up the steps of the porch. She's never been happier to see the girl, and she's suddenly grateful that her house is directly en route with Quinn's, whose own home is only two blocks away. "What are you doing here?" the girl continues. "Brittany doesn't have a dog. Do you know her, baby?"

Stepping back, Brittany makes way so Quinn can knock on her front door. When there's no response, she calls out, "B? Are you home?" She waits a minute, but no one comes to the door. Instead of leaving, as Brittany expects her to do, Quinn looks down at her with an almost fond expression in her green eyes. She groans as she sits to be eye level with the dog.

"What's your story?" she asks, but her voice is airy, near dreamy. Brittany sits and, attempting a hug, plops her upper body into Quinn's lap. The blonde laughs and strokes her ear. "I'm going to take you to my house, okay?"

Brittany only thinks for a moment before she decides that yeah, it is okay. It's not like she can get into her own home, and it's not likely Santana would open the door if she went to her. She knows and likes Quinn, and she trusts that if anyone were able to help Brittany, she would be pretty high up on her list of friends. So Brittany stands on her four legs and makes her way to Quinn's car. She hears her friend laugh as she gets up.

"It's like you know what I'm saying, huh?"

Brittany wishes, for the umpteenth time in the past hour, that she could laugh.

/*/

On the car ride to Quinn's house, she leaves the passenger seat window down. Brittany's always a fan of cliché, and this doesn't change when she sticks her head out the window. The rush is indescribable, the wind blowing through her fur and smelling all those smells. The car pulls into the driveway much too soon, and she's so desperate for a longer ride that she almost chokes when the window goes up.

Quinn opens the back seat for her bag, and then the passenger seat for the dog, who automatically attempts to run to the garage door. It's always the way she used to enter her friend's house. But Quinn, who'd somehow gotten ahold of her collar, holds her back and winds her to the gate that leads to the backyard.

"My mom's home, so I have to introduce you gradually," she explains without being asked. "Give me five minutes." The gate slams shut loudly, and Brittany is left alone.

Instantly, she begins to panic. What if she's supposed to sleep in the backyard? Who cares if it's almost summer vacation, Ohio is always chilly at night. Plus it's dark at night. And there are bugs. And what if there's a shark in Quinn's pool that likes to eat dogs?

Before Brittany can begin to hyperventilate, the French doors that lead to Quinn's living room open and her mother steps out. Judy Fabray's hair is tightly twisted into a bun, which tends to stretch out her face and makes her features look sharper than entirely necessary. She's made Brittany nervous since her childhood, but every other moment pales in comparison to this as Judy's gaze wanders over her entire body. She'd try to wag her tail to let the woman know she's friendly, but she is—for lack of a better phrase—scared shitless.

"Where'd you find her?" she asks her daughter as she slowly approaches. Brittany can't help but wonder how her stiletto heels don't sink into the grass.

"I picked her up from in front of Britt's house. I think she must be one of her neighbor's dogs." Quinn follows her mother, but reaches Brittany first. She must be visibly shaken, because her friend soothingly strokes her ears and whispers, "It's all right," almost inaudibly.

Judy smiles, but says in a sharp voice, "We're not keeping her forever, you know."

Quinn rolls her eyes. "Of course not, Mother. Just until I find her owner. She has a collar, and she's obviously well-taken care of. Someone will be looking for her. It'll be two or three days, tops."

Mrs. Fabray looks over the dog before her once more. Brittany's hearts stops, and she almost runs when the woman lifts her hand. But instead of being hit as she initially though, Quinn's mom gently pats her head. When Brittany's tail finally begins to thump softly on the grass, her smile widens to one that could be called genuine. Brittany can't say if she's ever seen one of those grace Judy's face. Ever.

"Two or three days, tops," the woman repeats. She retracts her hand and continues to the house. As she opens the doors, Judy calls over her shoulder, "I would've said no had she been a mixed-breed."

Ah, there's the Mrs. Fabray Brittany had grown to know.

Quinn heads to the house too, but stops at the door. She turns to Brittany and pats her own hip. "Well, come on. You're allowed in."

Brittany's relief pushes her quickly inside, where it's warm and lit and—best of all—completely shark-free.

/*/

In the kitchen, Brittany gnaws on a cold steak from a white china plate. Pretty sweet digs, she muses decidedly. The Fabrays didn't have any dog food or a bowl to offer, and Brittany couldn't be happier when they set a leftover dinner in front of her. Hopefully, this whole situation will be over and done with before Brittany has to make the transition to—she shudders imagining it—kibble.

Quinn sits at the counter on a tall stool, doing something or other on her laptop. It's well past dark, and Brittany knows Quinn finished her homework before she even left the school.

Just as she polishes off the meat, licking the plate for good measure (hey, she can only be a dog for so long, right? She might as well enjoy it.), the cellphone next to the laptop buzzes. Quinn gives the screen a pointed glare before she picks it up, pressing it to her ear as her other hand rises to press her temple.

"Hi," she greets dryly.

Brittany, still lying on the tile, watches Quinn as she makes conversation. She gives short, terse answers. Quickly, she returns to fooling around on the computer. At some point, though, Quinn clicks on something that makes her stop short. Brittany can hear her breath hitch.

There's inaudible grumbling on the other end line. Quinn doesn't respond, just keeps reading whatever it is she found on the screen of the laptop. When the grumbling grows louder, her attention snaps back to the voice in her ear.

"What did you say?" she asks. There's a pause as whoever it is she's talking to speaks. "Sam, I'm listening, I am. I just got an email from Rachel and got distracted, okay?"

Brittany's ears perk. Sam's on the phone, Rachel's on the internet? Gauging from Quinn's reactions to both, she would've guessed the exact opposite.

After a minute, Quinn finally says goodnight and hangs up the phone. She types out a reply to whatever Rachel said to her, and closes the computer. Getting up, she walks to Brittany and picks up the plate from the floor.

"That was my boyfriend," she states simply as she carries the dish to the sink and places it there. "He likes to call me on the phone every night. He's kind of a girl that way." Quinn ambles to where Brittany lies and scratches her in between the eyes.

Brittany's not really surprised Quinn doesn't like talking to Sam that much. The only time she was super hot for him was during that whole "Justin Bieber Experiment" or "Experience" or "Expiracy" or whatever. All the other times, it just seemed to be a one-sided attraction. Brittany supposes her friend's just so used to always having a boyfriend, she doesn't particularly care anymore if she actually likes the guy.

Quinn tugs gently at her collar to make her stand. "Time for bed, pup."

Together, they make their way up the stairs to Quinn's incredibly large room. Quinn readies herself for the night, turns off the light, and crawls into her king-sized bed. Brittany tries to follow, but her nose is gently pushed back by a firm hand. "Nope," Quinn sighs, "beds are just for people. Sorry, doggy."

Too tired to push the matter, Brittany just plops herself on the ground next to the bed. It's quiet for only a few moments before Quinn's arm dangles over the side to rest on Brittany's neck.

"You probably have a name, huh?" she asks as she scratches the fur beneath the dog's collar. Brittany sighs, which Quinn takes as a yes. There's another minute of silence.

"Bailey," Quinn suddenly says. Brittany lifts her head and makes eye contact with the girl beside her.

"Is that your name?" the other blonde asks. "Bailey?" Brittany groans and lays her head back down, hoping Quinn takes the hint.

She does. "Okay, not Bailey. Marly."

Brittany doesn't respond.

"Ginger. Casey. Sandy." When the dog doesn't even blink, Quinn grumbles. "I just want to call you something other than 'doggy.'"

Brittany lifts her head again and licks Quinn's hand. She's touched that her friend cares that much. Not that she didn't love Quinn before, but Brittany can't help but think that she's never seen her be so gentle before with anything or anyone other than Beth. Maybe that's why she's being so nice, maternal instinct or whatnot.

"Is Blondie okay?" Quinn asks. It sounds vaguely familiar. Brittany sits up and rests her head on the mattress, hoping Quinn will go on. She giggles softly and strokes Brittany's muzzle. "That mean lady that kicked you today? That's kind of my best friend. She calls me blondie sometimes, and I always kind of thought it was endearing. Despite that fact that she's kind of a bitch.

"She called you blondie today, too, which makes me think she likes you more than she thinks she does. Plus it would bug the hell out of her." Quinn finishes with a wry grin and looks at Brittany expectantly.

How fitting, she thinks, that she'd be named after something Santana called her. Looking back at the interaction by the car, Brittany realizes it was the only name that couldn't be considered completely hostile. It's a hell of a lot better than beast or mongrel or that d-word, at the very least.

Brittany, with one last look at her friend, licks Quinn's face. She laughs.

"Blondie it is, then."

Both lay back down. Given time to think, Brittany gives out a very soft whine when she remembers that she spent last night crying herself to sleep. It's too early to tell whether tonight is better or worse.

When Quinn lifts herself to a sitting position, though, Brittany's thoughts are immediately interrupted.

"You want up, huh?"

Well, no, that wasn't why Brittany was crying. But she knows not to look a gift horse in the mouse (or something like that), so she whines quietly again and drops her ears to look as pathetic as possible.

It works. Quinn pushes the covers back and pats the space next to her on the mattress. "I guess there's enough room for us both," she croons.

Brittany makes quick work of squirming next to her friend and cuddling as close as possible. Quinn laughs as she lies down again, and says, "Maybe you _are_ Brittany's dog."

The statement almost makes Brittany sad. Her head finally settles on a pillow.

"I've always wanted a dog," Quinn says absent-mindedly as she traces a pattern in Brittany's fur. "Something about dogs is just… I don't know. Calming. Like a friend that you have all the time, you know? No fighting, no drama, no judging. Just a friend."

Brittany tries to nod, but just ends up snuggling closer to Quinn. She takes that as an affirmation anyway. "Animals are just easier to talk to, I guess. Always listening."

If she could, Brittany would explain that she feels the exact same way about her cats. She remembers how she and Lord Tubbington had a similar conversation the night before. But even if she could explain, she figures it would just ruin the other blonde's statement. Instead, she nudges Quinn once more, and lets her suddenly extremely heavy eyelids drift shut.

Quinn kisses the space in between Brittany's eyes. "Good night, Blondie. Sleep well."

/*/

**Author's note (ii):** No idea when the next chapter will be up. College's started already, and my beta and I are on different time zones, and blah blah blah. But I thank you for your patience and your time. Chapter three ("Saturday") will be up eventually.


	3. Saturday

**Author's note (i):** Oh God, I seemed to have forgotten I was in the middle of writing a story. College and shit—you all know the drill. I'm sorry for being such a flake, and thank you for reading and reviewing and favorite-ing and alerting regardless of that. I'll always be appreciative of it.

/*/

Saturday

/*/

Sometime after the sun comes up, Brittany awakens when something on her bed shifts. It's just like Charity to get up early on the weekend and have no regard for the people who are still trying to sleep. Brittany just tries to shut her eyes tighter and curl further into the blankets. But when a blinding light can be seen through her eyelids, she becomes irritated.

"Stop playing with the pulley things," she chides. But when what actually comes out of her throat is a groggy growl, Brittany remembers. She remembers so fast she thinks her head might just explode.

Opening her eyes, she watches Quinn—already showered and dressed and ready for the day—stride towards her. "Good morning, Blondie," she greets and kisses her floppy ear. Brittany smiles inwardly despite the pounding in her head.

"Come on. Up, pup," she gently orders, patting the dog on her shoulder. "Let's go outside."

Begrudgingly, Brittany jumps down from the bed and follows her friend downstairs and out the back door. In the dewy early morning, she can't help but feel relaxed, despite the less than calming situation she's currently in. Quinn sprawls out on a lawn chair on the patio and idly strokes Brittany's fur, who sits dotingly beside her.

There's no way to tell how long they sit out there in comfortable silence before Quinn states, "I'm not waiting forever, you know."

Brittany turns her head questioningly. Quinn almost scoffs, but a playful smile still graces her beautiful features. "Don't give me that," she softly scolds. "You haven't gone once since I picked you up. You can't hold it in forever.

It takes a prolonged moment before Brittany gets it, but she immediately feels the truth in her bladder. And instantly, she panics. Quinn wants to _watch_ her pee? Quinn wants to watch her pee in the _backyard_! She whines at the injustice, but under Quinn's intense gaze she withers and hesitantly makes her way to the middle of the grass. Turning her back to the house and to her friend, Brittany stands, waiting for instinct to take over. She needs to go—like, she _really_ needs to go. But she can feel Quinn's eyes carefully watching her.

Geez, Louise, even Santana knew her boundaries when it came to the bathroom. Join in the shower? Sure. Join on the toilet? Nope.

Brittany swivels her head to look at Quinn after a minute and sighs.

"… You're kidding."

Ears perking, she gently wags her tail.

Quinn groans as she gets up from the chair and begins to reenter the house. "You are a piece of work, you know that?" Brittany barks lightly to affirm this, just as the door closes behind the other blonde.

No longer shy, it takes no time at all for Brittany to feel the urge to squat. Despite the fact that she's peeing in the middle of the Fabray backyard while completely sober, the relief is immense, and she'd collapse right there if that weren't just where she did her business but a moment ago.

She approaches the French doors and reaches for the handle but, not having actual hands—_Come _on_, Brittany, you're a dog. What do you not get by that?_—ends up scratching the window instead. It still has the desired effect; the door opens. But she trots inside to a cold, "I'm _not_ going to have that animal marring the glass. That's expensive to replace."

_Good morning to you, too, Mrs. Fabray_.

"Mom," Quinn whines as she shuts the door behind Brittany, "settle down. I'm pretty sure Blondie's not going to wreck your door."

Instead of scolding her daughter for her contradiction, Judy instead stops stirring whatever is cooking in the frying pan and looks down at Brittany. She shrivels underneath her gaze.

"Dear Lord. You _named _her."

"So?" Quinn asks as she sits at the counter. There's an empty plate in front of her.

"We're not keeping her."

"I know that."

"We're _not_."

"I _know_."

There's a tense silence as Mrs. Fabray walks to the counter in front of Quinn and loads the plate with—_sweet mother of God_—bacon. She replaces that pan onto the stove, grabs a second one, and also serves her daughter some eggs. After the practically-orgasmic smells have shocked Brittany's system enough, the blonde notices that the older woman is barefoot.

That surprises Brittany on its own, but she's even more floored when she examines Judy further and notices 1) no makeup, 2) no bun, and 3) no stuffy clothes. Instead, Judy's face is clear, her hair is only pulled back with a clip, and she wears an actually stylish peasant top and—_holy crap_—jeans. Jeans! She looks like an actual mom for once.

To top it all off, when Mrs. Fabray grabs a second plate and fills it with the remaining bacon and then puts it on the tile next to Brittany, she's officially been knocked off her feet. Metaphorically-speaking, of course, because what Brittany really does is—when Quinn's mother kneels—takes the opportunity to lean up and lick her jaw in thanks. Then she goes to wolfing the bacon down like Mrs. Fabray is going to change her mind and take it back.

Her shock only increases when Judy doesn't immediately backhand her. Instead, she laughs.

"Oh! Puppy kisses," she giggles. Patting Brittany on the head, she stands back up. "You're welcome."

"Mother," Quinn chides with a gentle smile, her mouth full of eggs. "We're not keeping her."

Judy smiles back. "I know that."

"We're _not_."

"I _know_."

The bacon in front of Brittany is already long gone as she watches this exchange. The two blonde women are chuckling at each other and enjoying the silence that ensues. No digs, no daggers, no nothing. Brittany is happy to conclude that most mornings are like this between the Fabray girls—it's just that the only ones Quinn bothers to relay to her and Santana are the messy ones. Those are a better story, after all.

After Quinn finishes her own meal, she rises gracefully and moves to the sink, stooping on the way to pick up the bowl sitting by the back door that serves as Brittany's water dish. As she turns on the faucet to rinse the dishes, Judy interrupts.

"Dear," she says, moving just as effortlessly next to her daughter. "Let me."

"Okay." Quinn steps back as Mrs. Fabray takes over. She watches for a beat, and then turns and heads towards the stairs. "I'll be in my room if you need me."

Judy hums her approval. Brittany would usually follow, but she's thirsty. Instead, she waits patiently for the woman to finish washing the dishes and to fill up the bowl with clean water. She replaces it by the door and, as Brittany goes to quench her thirst, kneels onto her haunches to stroke the fur around the dog's collar. After a moment, Judy Fabray—sore and apparently full of surprises today—sits cross-legged on her kitchen floor, quietly petting Brittany as she drinks.

"You look like Bear," she whispers. "Bear was my dog. He died when I was Quinn's age."

When Judy doesn't move away once Brittany's done, Brittany doesn't move either. She watches the older woman's face as she's studied herself. Judy's eyes follow her hand as she strokes Brittany's fur; she almost looks sad. Brittany whines to tell her that it's okay for a mommy to be sad sometimes, and when Judy's eyes dart up to meet hers, she figures that she understands. She _knows_ that she understands only when Judy wraps her arms around Brittany and nuzzles her face into the fur of her neck.

"Good doggy."

/*/

Brittany wakes up on the couch with her head in Judy's lap. The woman covers the dog's floppy ears when she calls out, "Quinn?"

"I got it!" There's the sound of stomping feet hurrying downstairs. When she hears the front door opens, Brittany realizes it was the doorbell that woke her up. Realizing that someone new is about to enter the house, dog-instinct kicks in, and Brittany launches from Judy, skidding across hardwood floor to where Quinn is just opening the door.

"Greetings, Quinn!" is all Rachel Berry can get out before there's ninety-pounds of golden retriever in her arms.

"No, Blondie!" Quinn scolds. "Down!"

But Rachel is on her knees, scratching Brittany's ears and happily accepting all kisses Brittany gives—who is just pleased as punch that someone else likes her regardless of her species. "Greetings to you, too, canine!" When Brittany decides that she's probably being a tad overzealous and backs up to Quinn's knees, Rachel stands straight. "When did you get a dog?"

Grabbing Brittany by the collar and leading her inside, Quinn motions for Rachel to follow with her head. "I didn't. She's not mine."

"Whose, might I ask, is she?"

"I don't know. I found her out front of Britt's."

"Well," Rachel shrugs, tugging on Brittany's ear fondly. "Somebody must be missing her by now."

Quinn starts to go upstairs, and Rachel follows. Brittany—confused and wondering if Rachel and Quinn have private girl-talk sessions _every_ weekend because if she's going to be honest she's a _little_ insulted she was never invited before and isn't technically even invited now!—trots up to Quinn's room with the both of them.

"I'm going to drive around the neighborhood tonight and see if anyone posted about her," Quinn states. "If no one has, I'm going to put up 'found dog' posters tomorrow after church."

"Oh!" Rachel squeals, setting herself on Quinn's bed and clapping her hands. "Let me help with the posters! I strongly believe that you will be able to garner more attention if you decorate it with a gold star or two. Count yourself lucky that I received a new bedazzler for Hanukkah!"

Brittany looks over to Quinn, expecting a classic eye roll or some mean comment on Rachel's nose/Jewish background/a combination therein. But she's shocked—absolutely _shocked_—when Quinn smiles softly, nods her head, and says, "You know what, Rachel. That'd actually be great. Thank you."

There's a moment of silence as the two girls appraise each other before Rachel says, "Well, we'd better get started."

_Get started with being _normal_, perhaps?_ Brittany thinks. She vocalizes it with a groan as she looks up at Quinn. _Seriously. What is happening?_

"You can have the bed," Quinn says to Brittany, pointing to the spot Rachel just vacated. Brittany doesn't turn that offer down, settling with a wary eye on the girls in front of her.

Rachel is pulling her pink, rhinestoned iPod from her bag. "Now, I must say, I am honored that you allowed me to help you write a song to audition for nationals. With your rich and largely contralto range, I would really like to pull influences from Judy Garland's best work. I have her original 'Somewhere Over the Rainbow' from _The Wizard of Oz_ on here somewhere, but I have to dig through several other versions to find it, including—of _course_—Israel Kamakawiwo'ole's only recently popularized ukulele adaptation…"

Brittany's head is spinning trying to keep up with Rachel's droning (she seems to have that issue whether she's a dog or a girl), but she's only thrown for more of a loop when she chances a glance at Quinn. The girl, who probably isn't listening anymore either, is bobbing her head gently in agreement and has the tiniest of smiles gracing her features. Where's the sneer? Where's the single-raised eyebrow that usually makes others _literally_ quake in fear? Granted, Quinn lost a lot of her zest after she gave up Beth, but Brittany knows that doesn't mean Quinn doesn't still resent Rachel from her split ends to the tips of her awful Mary Janes (Santana's words, not hers).

Or does she resent her at all? Apparently not, because when Rachel asks Quinn what her favorite style of singing is, the blonde answers, "I don't know. What do _you_ like to hear me sing? I mean, you're the experienced one, after all."

Brittany could _faint_.

Rachel look just as surprised, but—for her part—swallows it down. "Well, Quinn, thank you for your confidence in my expertise. I must say your and Sam's rendition of Jason Mraz and Colbie Caillat's 'Lucky' was superb, so I would pin your 'type' as being more romantic." Rachel stops and takes a breath before continuing. "How _are_ you and Sam doing, anyway?"

Quinn's small smile fades as quickly as Brittany's ears perk—_this_ will be interesting.

"We're fine," is her curt reply.

Worrying her lip between her teeth, Rachel appraises Quinn. "Are you sure? I know that you and I have just newly begun to reanalyze a possible and—if I may be so bold—probable friendship, but I can assure you that you can trust me wholly." She takes a tentative step forward. "It's just that—um… You've seemed unhappy lately. More than usual."

"And _what_ do you mean by that?" Quinn sneers.

Rachel pales at her clipped words. Brittany muses that it's uncanny how quickly the two snap back into their roles from only a year ago—mean cheerleader and frightened wannabe.

"There was no double meaning behind that," Rachel fumbles. "I only meant to help by—"

"Well, don't," Quinn interrupts. She sits on the bed next to Brittany, and finds an excuse to avoid Rachel's eyes in stroking the dog's ears. "It's not your place."

"Is it _that_ insulting that I feel responsible for you?" the brunette asks loudly, then visibly draws herself back as she realizes what she just said.

Quinn takes her eyes off of Brittany for only a moment as she takes a quick glance at Rachel. "How on earth do you figure you're responsible for me?"

Rachel walks over to Quinn's bed and takes a seat on the other side of Brittany—as Brittany's head switches back and forth in confusion on which she should pay more attention to. "Where do I start?" she jokes. When Quinn doesn't even crack a smile, she takes a deep breath and continues.

"Let's see. Last year, I tattled to Finn about you and Puck in order to break you two up, and then I snatched him up as soon as I possibly could. And then this year I used you to clarify his feelings for me, utterly ignoring the inner conflict you must be feeling—"

Rachel cuts herself off. Brittany can feel both girls' hands trembling—Quinn's on her head, Rachel's on her back. She feels Rachel clutch at her fur as she continues.

"Now that Finn's and my relationship is over, I have been able to take a step back and assess just how selfish I was. How selfish I still _am_, most of the time. And, since I seem to be on a roll—" Quinn actually chortles a mite at this. Rachel glows. "—I just wanted to let you know that I truly care about you, and that I'm here if you ever need someone to talk to."

The end of her sentence hangs in the air an extra minute. The tension is palpable, and Brittany is conflicted on whether she's intruding on an extremely intimate, private moment or if she should fetch (_Ha! Get it? Fetch_) a video camera and attempt to record this. Finally, Quinn lifts her hand from Brittany and places it gently on Rachel's shoulder—the diva flinches, obviously expecting a slap.

"Thank you," Quinn says simply before replacing her hand on Brittany. The silence that ensues is—strangely—not at all uncomfortable.

It lasts a good while before Rachel claps her hands and says, "All right. Shall we begin writing you an original song?"

/*/

After three hours of Rachel's endless babbling and Quinn's quiet nodding, there's not a whole lot of work to show for it—not that Brittany is entirely aware of this, seeing as how she took a second nap that day, starting a mere thirty seconds into the girls' songwriting. She only awoke to the shuffling of a book bag and the two chatting away.

"Thanks, Rachel, I really do appreciate the help," Quinn says, pushing her hair out her face as she watches Rachel collect herself.

"The pleasure is all mine, I assure you," she replies, standing straight and giving the blonde a hug. "What time do you want me back tomorrow?"

Before Quinn can respond, she's interrupted by the ringing of her cell phone on her end table. Scratching Brittany's forehead as she passes, Quinn picks it up, checks the caller ID, and answers with, "Hey, S."

Brittany's heart somehow both rises and falls at the sound of Santana's nickname. She strains to hear what her best friend is saying on the other end of the line—to no real avail. This whole super-sonic-dog-hearing thing doesn't seem to apply over phones.

"No," Quinn says, throwing a look over to Rachel, who waits at the door. "I haven't seen Britt at all. I texted her a couple of times, but she never texted back. I stopped by her house after school yesterday, too, and she wasn't home."

The guilt literally makes Brittany sick. She tries to hide from her shame by twisting her head until she's under a pillow; that always made her feel better before, and she knows that's Charity's favorite place to go when she and Lord Tubbington have had a fight. Rachel obviously thinks it's cute though, as she giggles and sits on the bed with Brittany and scratches her tummy, which actually kind of works.

Well, it works until she hears Quinn say, "Santana, are you crying?" Then Brittany is back to hating herself. She works herself back out from under the bedding.

"Sorry," Quinn continues. "It just sounded like you were sniffling… Hey, I was just concerned, okay? Don't go all Snix on me… Look, I'm sure she's fine… I don't _know_ that, no. But I _feel_ it… I would say that now is not the time for another 'mother's intuition' joke, okay? Jeep calling her, she'll give in eventually."

From her spot on the bed, Rachel waves her hand to get Quinn's attention. When the blonde looks over, all they do is share a glance before she asks, "Would you feel better if Rachel stopped by B's place? I feel like Britt's more likely to open the door to her than to either of us right now."

That's actually not a wrong assumption—as much as Brittany complains about Rachel (in her head, at least), she does think that she gives the best advice. But she's too floored by the Brittany-Santana-know-what-the-other-is-thinking moment Quinn and Rachel just shared to think about that too much.

"Santana, she's not _that_ short. And regardless, I really don't think that's what matters right now. You want to talk to her, right?" Brittany holds her breath as she waits for Santana's unheard response. When Quinn continues, her body relaxes so much that she drops her head down with a heavy plunk. "… I thought so. Stop freaking out, okay? Britt will talk to you when she cools off." Santana apparently hangs up, because Quinn closes her phone without a good bye.

"Santana will thank me one day," Rachel states, getting up from the bed and again heading for the door. She throws out a "Bye, Blondie!" as Quinn follows her out. Brittany is left alone for the first time in a long while.

Which is dangerous, because when Brittany's alone, she gets lonely. And when she's lonely, she gets sad. She thinks of Santana alone in her own bed, worrying about where Brittany is. She knows that if she didn't know where Santana was, she'd feel the exact same way. And before she knows it, Brittany's crying. It must be loud, because she can hear Quinn down the hallway call for her.

"Baby, what's wrong?" The door reopens a moment later. As Quinn pokes her head in, Brittany notices that her purse is now hanging from her shoulder.

"You okay?" Quinn asks again. Brittany wags her tail to signal that, really, she's all right.

"Okay then." The girl smiles. "I'm going to go drive around the neighborhood, all right, pup? Rachel offered to ride shotgun and be a second pair of eyes." When Brittany remains silent, she continues. "I'll be back soon, hopefully with good news. I'm going to get you home, I promise."

As she listens to the blonde descend the staircase, all Brittany can think is, _I sure wish you could._

/*/

Quinn is not home "soon" by any standards. Apparently, she calls Judy at some point to tell her not to wait up for dinner, because the older woman feeds Brittany the other half of the spaghetti she'd made. Regardless of the fine dining Brittany has been experiencing as a Fabray pet, she's rather put out that Quinn didn't remember that she had a lonely golden retriever waiting for her back home—especially since, alone, all Brittany's done has thought incessantly about Santana.

It's eleven o'clock at night when Quinn fumbles into her room. Brittany imagines that they look a lot like a movie when she turns on the lights and finds the dog looking at her from her bed. _And how was _your_ evening_? Brittany wants to ask.

Quinn misinterprets the questioning gaze. "No luck, Blondie. Not a single poster to be found." She places her purse on her desk before turning the bedroom light off once more and tiptoeing to the bed. Once the two are settled together—Brittany might be a little ticked off, but she never refuses a good cuddle—Quinn begins again.

"Sorry I'm so late, honey," she explains, "When Rachel and I didn't find any 'lost dog' posters, we decided to grab dinner at Breadstix. We drafted what the 'found' posters should look like. You'll really like them, I think. And then she and I just ended up talking for _hours _at the restaurant…" After Quinn trails off, they're silent for a couple of minutes.

"Santana's in love with Brittany," Quinn states suddenly. It's all Brittany can do to keep herself from shooting off the bed in surprise. Instead, she throws a glance in Quinn's direction that she thinks must look extremely guilty.

"That's why she's so worried. San has no idea that she's so painfully obvious when she's with B, but she's really scared of being, you know, _out_. This is a hick town, not a lot of people are that understanding about that kind of thing. I think San must've hurt Brittany's feelings because she doesn't really care what people think about her. That's what's so great about B, she's just so _honest _and _open_. If S said something that made Britt that upset, and then something happened her, she'd _never _forgive herself."

Brittany is the most attentive she's ever been as she listens to Quinn's pillow talk. She isn't clear on if the girl is actually talking to _her_, or just to the open space, but she feels like it's really important to listen—even if it ends up as just mindless rambling.

It's when Quinn says, "I think I understand where Santana's coming from," that really sets an idea in Brittany. She picks up her head just enough to be able to look at Quinn's face—and is heartbroken to see that she's crying. She suspects what Quinn will say next before she actually whispers it.

"I'm in love with Rachel Berry."

The admission is shocking, but not surprising. After it's said out loud, Quinn laughs. "I haven't actually said that yet. But that's it." She's still crying as she laughs, and Brittany is so caught off guard that the only way she can think to comfort Quinn is to give her the littlest lick on the cheek. She quiets instantly and wraps her arms around Brittany's throat.

"I'm glad you're here," she says almost inaudibly, and this time Brittany knows she's talking to her—and she's kind of glad she's here too.

Brittany doesn't fall asleep for another forty-five minutes, when Quinn's breathing evens out and she stops tossing and turning.

/*/

**Author's note (ii): **Significantly shorter chapter, I know. But hopefully it was just as interesting. Again, my _sincerest_ apologies for not updating for so long. No promises when chapter four ("Sunday") will be posted, but hopefully it'll be prompter than this one. Thank you all, once more!


End file.
